


Under the Tree

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Challenge Response, Christmas Presents, Community: section7mfu, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 02:06:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13044255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: Once upon a Time challenge. December 2017 (Theme: Christmas)Napoleon arrives back late from a mission - there's no-one home to share Christmas with.





	Under the Tree

**Under the tree**

 

“Peace and goodwill,” Napoleon muttered to himself as he trudged through the snow. “There will be none of either when I get back.” There was no-one else on the street, and he was grumbling aloud to himself, just in order to hear a human voice in this blizzard.

Aunt Amy was away this year, and he was cast back on his own resources which were unlikely to be reliable in the circumstances. He had successfully, but rather belatedly, got away from Thrush, of whose proclivities whatshername – Sheila? Priscilla? – knew nothing. Proclivities, pah. Psychopathic tendencies, that’s what. Anyway, he was a day late and she had probably given up on him. And where was Illya when you needed him, hm? …Hope he’s OK. …Haven’t heard from him in a while… probably sitting in his far-from-warm room reading some worthy journal article about the fundamental constituents of matter. Fundamental …nuts… and not a holly berry or Yule log in sight, if he knew that Little Red Sceptic.

The bag of groceries was disintegrating as he stamped up the steps of his apartment block. It finally disintegrated as he walked through his door, so that he shed a festive trail all the way through to the kitchen – except for the bottle which he had had the forethought to tuck under his arm.

Growling a little, he walked bent double, picking up the fundamental constituents of a solitary Christmas dinner – the somewhat inadequate substitutes that were all that remained in the deli when he arrived back. Still, at least there was Scotch, and he’d put the tree up before he left, along with a pile of presents, so with a few strategically-placed candles, it might look quite a convincing display for an otherwise fun-free Christmas Eve.

He sat in front of the TV for a while, eating a meal, drinking whisky, and dozing. One by one, the candles went out, leaving the room dark but for the Christmas tree lights and the flickering of the television screen. Thoroughly bored, he switched it all off, went to bed, and slept.

**********************

A slim figure, dressed in a thick red padded jacket, black trousers and boots, and a warm red hat pulled down round his ears, stepped quietly through the door of the apartment. He carefully swung the bag down from his shoulder and untied the string round its neck. From it he removed a large, brightly-wrapped parcel and carried it across the room to the tree. He bent and, put it down among a pile of presents. There was a similar parcel lying there, separate from the rest, and, seeing the name on it, he picked it up and took it to his bag, retied the string, swung it back on his shoulder and left as silently as he had come.

**************************

Entirely unaware of this nocturnal intrusion, Napoleon rose in the morning, took a shower, shaved, dressed and, now worthy of it, wished himself a happy Christmas. He made himself a coffee, ate an elaborate Christmas breakfast and went into the other room to open the tributes from his admirers.

Some of it was edible, some wearable, and some unmentionable. But he spent a happy half hour thinking up suitable expressions of gratitude, especially for the latter items. Then he noticed the remaining large parcel and sighed. He didn’t know if he’d get the chance to give that present today. He looked again; it seemed different. He didn’t remember sealing it quite so impenetrably. He picked it up and now saw the tag and the distinctive handwriting. It was addressed to himself. The original had gone.

********************

“Illya, is that you?”

“No-one else uses this communicator, Napoleon.”

“Happy Christmas, my friend! Where are you?”

“And compliments of the season to you, too,” said Illya, unusually compliant. “I’m at home. Where are you?”

“At home.”

“At home! Since when?”

“Since last night - I got in about 10.”

There was a silence. “Are you still there?” said Napoleon, shaking the communicator.

“Yes, I’m still here.”

“If you’re not otherwise engaged, come over and share Christmas dinner with me?”

“I’d like that very much. Do you need anything?

“Whatever you’ve got – there wasn’t a lot left when I got to the deli.”

“When shall I come?”

“Why not now?”

**********************

When Napoleon opened the door, Illya was standing there, carrying a bottle in one hand, a bag of food items in the other, and wearing a new anorak in a fetching shade of red. Napoleon was slightly surprised, recalling a bright blue one that he sometimes wore in winter and, as Illya rarely bought new clothes, this was worthy of note.

He made no comment, however, knowing full well that Illya wouldn’t respond to a direct question. If driven to it by Napoleon’s apparent indifference, he just might say something – it was one of the many curious aspects of that prickly personality, and Napoleon thought he knew how to play on it.

“Vodka? Or is it a bit early – glass of red wine?”

Illya accepted the substitute, reckoning on the vodka later, and sat down in the chair beside the tree. “I hope Santa Claus brought you suitable acknowledgements of the season,” he said, glancing down at the empty space beneath it.

“Yes, he did. There was one I wasn’t expecting – and I think he had to come back to deliver it. What’s more, he took one away”

“He did?”

“How did you get in without waking me?”

“I didn’t know you were back. Everything was dark. I should have been able to tell, but I was being so careful to avoid waking your neighbours that I was hardly breathing.”

“What if they’d seen you?”

“I was wearing my new anorak – I looked like Ded Moróz.”

Napoleon laughed at that, and said, “I was going to ask you about the jacket. Where’s the blue one?”

“I gave it away.”

Napoleon’s eyebrows rose, “Gave it away? Why, what was wrong with it?”

“Nothing. Just, somebody needed it more than I did.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday. There was a man sitting in a doorway, begging – all he had was a thin blanket.”

“But weren’t you cold?”

“Not as cold as him.”

“There was a saint who gave away his cloak to a beggar.”

“Was there? I’m not a saint, Napoleon – the man would have died in yesterday’s cold.”

“That’s what a saint is, someone who notices and does something about it – even if it costs them. It’s also what we stand for, and, for that matter, it’s the meaning of Christmas – peace and goodwill to all men.”

“Oh, Napoleon, you do exaggerate. I was brought up a communist – we share, that’s all.”

Napoleon smiled. “Well, now we’re going to share some food – break bread together, my friend,” and he got up, poured more wine into Illya’s glass, saluted him and went into the kitchen to put together the curious assembly of comestibles they had acquired between them.

Neither of them had commented on the gifts they had exchanged.

*********************

Lying back replete in comfortable chairs, coffee at their elbow, vodka and Scotch in hand, they contemplated each other.

“OK, so how did _you_ think of it?”

“What?”

“The gift.”

“Oh, that. Same way you did, I guess.”

“Great minds think alike.”

“Great spies have the same needs.”

“Happy Christmas, Illya.”

“Schastlivovo Rozhdestva, Napoleon.”

===============================


End file.
